


Accepting the Wrong Outcome

by Kanervakani



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Death, Graphic Description of Corpses, Original Fiction, Somewhat, angst sm angst, i suck at writing angst but hey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanervakani/pseuds/Kanervakani
Summary: Word prompts from a list; Monarda + graveyard.Monarda visits the house they lived in as a child and where their mother died and they themself thought they would die too; a rare condition for an immortal demigod.Notable; as a demigod Monarda keeps one trait of mortality (eg. Kurkku sleeps,) which in their case is the mortal mindset. As theyve experienced what they thought was death, their mortal part began a loop in their head when their immortal part kept them alive.Super angsty and its kinda bad but i wanted to try writing smth more serious :( You know





	Accepting the Wrong Outcome

Flax yellow lizards laid along the darkened bones of the old cabin. They shone bright against the dark stones, enjoying the warmth of the midday sun that rested in every crevice of what was now their home. Monarda wondered if it had ever belonged to them and their mother; those few years were such a short time in the grand picture of time and felt like a short visit into someone else’s home.

The debris barely looked like the stone bed of a house anymore; clearest sign of something having been there was the stone kiln, barely standing and supporting the climbing attempts of formerly domesticated flowers. Everything valuable was gone; it was a wonder some farmer hadn’t picked up the certainly useful stones from the ground to build something new. 

Monarda recalled there having been glass mosaic on the kiln, but the vibrant colors were gone. They felt the smooth stones with their fingers; most of the plaster had been smoothed out too. They felt warm to the touch, almost hot; but nothing compared to the night when they should have died.

They turned around from the kiln to look at the other, clearly less organized stone pile a bit further away from the debris. Lavender and something similar to roses had risen up along it and almost covered the little carvings. It was not traditional to avian burials; though they had one of the most diverse cultures due to being such a spread out species, none of them included burial mounds. 

Monarda took wary steps towards it, lifting their bare feet over the ledge of the stone bed. They stared at the dulled shapes in the stones, unable to make out what they were.

The air felt heavy and wet; the dark clothes on Monardas back were absorbing the warmth. It was so similar to every other summer Monarda had experienced here. Memories of laying in the shade of the house, drinking cool water Lavendula had pumped from the well that was a short walk away. Monarda had always been in wonder of her strength. She carried almost anything; including her quickly growing child. Monarda had loved resting in the back baby carrier after hours of running around. They remembered the lavender scent of their mother, and the buzzcut of the back of her head they had always loved the feeling of. She had rarely said anything, but often turned her head back to make sure Monarda was doing ok.

That was where the already dim memories blacked out. Monarda had tried to replace the face she couldn’t recall with the faces of familiar gods, of strangers from streets and even of marble statues of the mortal realm. It never quite worked, but they would have preferred anything to the sight of burning skin and lips that curled up to reveal white, dry teeth of looking back to them. 

It wasn’t that the thought made Monarda sick anymore; they had seen far worse, and in any case, they had ran that moment back and forth in their head too many times to feel an acidic burn in their throat anymore. It was that sometimes they couldn’t stop thinking about it. Dark nights trying to study, moments of pleasant discussion with friends; all taken away by the compulsively returning image of dark eye sockets staring down at Monarda.

They weren’t able to recognize the spot where Lavendula had tripped, it was somewhere near the kiln; Monarda recalled wondering why the often burning fireplace was the only thing in their house that was now not ablaze. It hadn’t been all that evening, it was summer for god’s sake. The irony of that felt morbid now.

As they had lain there together, child wrapped in mother’s arms and fire wrapping around them, Monarda had thought Lavendula to be alive for far longer than she had been. She had died very soon after of the smoke in her lungs, but the child who breathed the same air, breathed the same smoke, had no chance of realizing that it was fatal to her. After all, it only burnt them; but have mercy how it burnt. Not even the fire that slowly caught to their linen clothes was as painful as the feeling that Monarda thought to be blistering hot glass sand against the soft lining of their lungs. 

They hadn’t cried for long; it became impossible after a few minutes. Their eyes felt foggy and dry, and all they could see was reddening, wrinkling flesh and bright light everywhere else. It was at that moment they had felt something. A strange relief, as if the last moments of a person dying from hypothermia feeling warmth and coziness. For the first time in their life they thought of a great nothingness, and more than that; graved it greatly. To a child in any other situation these thoughts would have been frightening, but at that moment Monarda welcomed the idea of absolute obscurity. They knew their mother was in the great nothing; whatever it meant. They visualized themself melting like her, letting go of the body that never did feel right for them to have after that night; rest would come if they simply followed their mother.

The fire crackled. Sounds of shattering glass, breaking wood and the heaving breath of the child accompanied it ever so often. The smell of burning flesh kept making Monarda open their eyes only to squeeze them closed back again. 

Nothing was happening. Nothing happened for several minutes, and a confusion began to creep in the place of the fulfilling feeling of comfort. 

It didn’t take too long after that for the rescue to come. Monarda recalled looking up at their father with their brows furrowed, as if they were being woken up from a sleep too early. They didn’t say anything when he dragged them both out, barely seeing anything nevertheless. Smoke had gotten into their eyes, making their vision a blurry and painful ordeal. 

The deathrattle of the house was replaced by the screaming of their father. It was too close, too loud; stung Monardas head and made it spin more than before. The elated feeling of before had began to waver too much for Monarda to be able to handle this. Father had helped pull Monarda out of the hands of their mother, but let them go as they scrambled off of his lap. Perhaps he had noticed they had no mortal damage; or maybe he was too grief stricken by the death of Lavendula to even notice his child awkwardly moving away. 

First on all fours, Monarda moved away from the house, towards the far away forests. It was dark, almost completely black outside to them; only small blinking lights made it past their dulled eyes. The ground felt heavenly cool, waterdrops stuck to Monardas skin from the grass. They sat on their knees and rubbed their face with wet hands. Yet it didn’t feel right.

When they lowered their hands from their now slightly clearer eyes, they saw a new darkness in front of them. It was a fabric, not the nothingness or the simple dimness of the night. It was a pretty fabric. Suddenly the core of Monardas body felt warm. Not burning, like the still painful burning in their lungs, but the same relief and something longing. They looked up, squinting their eyes at the pale face that looked down at them.

For a moment Monarda thought it was the moon itself come down on earth; the face was just as scarred yet similarly almost bewitching. Monarda suddenly bared their teeth into a an expression attempting to be a smile; they would have cried now if they had had even a single teardrop in their body anymore.

They stood up on wobbly legs and reached their arms up. This stranger was the one; they didn’t understand why, but they knew; he was the one who would take the pain away. He would help Monarda to nonexistance! It was all clear now! Monardas body shook from the exitement, or maybe the shivering was due to the sudden cold; it didn’t matter. The burning would be gone, the cold would be gone and the terrifying image of their loving mother scorched would be gone! Monarda would be gone!

The fair faced man looked down at them, and then up at their father, and walked around Monarda. The child slowly spun around, wide eyed, arms creeping down as they watched the man walk away, walk to their father and mother. The heightened joy came crashing down suddenly, the warmth dropped to the pit of their stomach, a block was hurled into their throat. This couldn’t be right. This couldn’t be how it was supposed to go. Legs gave up under Monarda and they recalled their vomit tasting like smoke, honey and acid. 

A sneer flickered onto Monardas face. The warmth of the sun suddenly felt comforting. 

They must have looked like a scared child seeking to be held by anyone to him. Confused, unknowing, but possible to comfort in future. He had been worried for their father, the one who had always shown his emotions better.

A choked up feeling blocked their breathing for a moment but escaped with a whimpering sob. It was so embarrassing. That was the last time they had felt fully comfortable and the last time they had shown such vulnerability, to a stranger of all people! At the moment the god of death hadn’t felt like a stranger, though. Maybe it was death that Monarda had felt familiarity with after being held by their mother in her last moments, or perhaps it was a glitch in their mind during such a traumatic experience.

Monarda took a deep shaking breath and wiped the wetness from their eyes. They calmed their body, squeezed their eyes shut, opened them and looked to the old, silvery shining draft horse eating away at the flowery meadows a stone throws length away. They thought about gathering some flowers for the burial stones, but they were already covered in climbing flora, and nothing felt like more of a cheap trick than gathering flowers from what was now Lavendulas eternal garden meadow to put on her grave. 

They had nothing to give, nor nothing to take from here. Their cries would only bother the houses new lizard residents now, and Monarda didn’t want to wake them. 

They took weak step towards the horse. It was time to go.

That night they would take the rare rest in an old tavern nearby and lay in their bed sleepless, cold, longing to be held for a moment, and for the first time in a while, the dark nothingness they had dreamt of for the rest of their youth.


End file.
